


thread of pearls

by tunnelOFdawn



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Related, Developing Relationship, Embedded Images, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25974646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunnelOFdawn/pseuds/tunnelOFdawn
Summary: Like a set of binary stars, they revolve together around the world of the exorcists. When they get too close, they distort each other in ways that Shinju does not know how to process. The anger comes easily even if her eyes can never quite leave Seiju’s form.Seiju still comes close.She does not care.Or she cares in a way that Shinju does not understand.In which Matoba Seiju and Natori Shinju grow up together as women in the world of exorcists.
Relationships: Matoba Seiji/Natori Shuuichi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15
Collections: Natsume Yuujinchou Bang Summer 2k20





	thread of pearls

**Author's Note:**

> "Shinju" means "pearl".  
> "Seiju" means "sacred pearl".
> 
> thank you so much, [alaina](https://alainaavocado.tumblr.com/)!! it's been a pleasure to work with you! <3
> 
> thank you to [cc (erzi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erzi/pseuds/erzi) for betaing!! <3 without you, i would still be stuck contemplating on whether matoba was too much of a clown...  
> please check out her bang fic too!
> 
> dedicated to the hexorcists server :)

**part i: spring**

"One day, I'll be a gentle person..."

* * *

“If you don’t get stronger, you won’t be able to protect anything.”

* * *

Mother likes Shinju’s hair when it is long.

Shinju hates it.

Claws tangle so easily in her hair and _pull_ when she runs away.

She is weaker than them.

* * *

Father hates Seiju’s hair when it is long.

Seiju loves it.

Claws skim the ends of her hair as she twists and subdues.

She is stronger than them.

* * *

On November 12, Natori Shinju is born as a squalling baby girl. Her mother sighs in contentment as she stares down at that red-purple face. She holds her daughter close to her chest. There are tears in her eyes as she looks at her husband.

“A daughter,” her husband says. He smiles a smile that is ill-suited for his drawn and wan features.

* * *

On November 1, Matoba Seiju is born as a screaming baby girl. Her mother’s corpse cools on a hospital bed. A hemorrhage, the doctors explain to her husband. There are tears visible in his left eye but they do not fall.

“A daughter,” he says. He frowns a frown that is well-suited for his stoic and sharp features.

* * *

Mama has sad, sad eyes when Shinju talks about the koto furunushi that Shinju likes to chase. Shinju likes to chase it because that’s when it plays the best music. “Koto-san,” she will say, “play me a song!” And Koto-san will play her a song that nobody else but her can hear. It has hair for strings and it will wave in the air when it plays her a song. The delicate music of the koto makes her hum along until her throat is all scratchy and raw. It’s worth it, she will tell Mama when she frets over her.

Papa hates it when Shinju talks about Koto-san. He will scold her and call her a bad girl for playing with Koto-san. He will say, “Shinju, don’t talk to those monsters! It’s bad luck.”

Grandpa hates it even more when he catches Shinju giggling as she chases after Koto-san. He will rub at his legs before he tries to stop Shinju’s legs from her chase. He will say, “I will not have this sort of business in my household!” And then he will mutter quietly, “I told him that girls with the sight are an ill omen.”

* * *

Seiju watches with wide eyes as Koto-san screams and screams until it finally comes to rest in the clay jar that her Father holds aloft. “Why?” she asks. Her heartbeat is so loud in her ears but the screaming still lingers.

“You silly girl,” Father says, “you cannot trust a yōkai.”

“It played for me,” she says blankly. Her fingers twist in the fabric of her sleep clothes. It played her lullabies, soft and sweet in the midnight breeze.

Father has dark, dark eyes in the moonlight that seeps through the window. “It did not play for you; it played for itself. You cannot trust a yōkai to exist for only itself,” he says, “and we cannot make use of such a yōkai.”

She looks away.

* * *

Despite all attempts otherwise, the world of the yōkai is not separate from the world of the Natoris. Shinju, they bemoan, has the sight. They want her to pretend at normality; they want her to blind herself. She does not. She does not want to diminish herself for a family that will still deem her bad luck.

Shinju has never been the most talented at suppressing her temper. It is anger that makes her confront the yōkai dogging her heels. It is a white amorphous yōkai with a long, trailing tail. It whispers with the rasp of dry leaves in the wind. “Human, human, human,” it says.

It has been following her for the entire day, attaching to her midway through her walk to school. When she walks back home, it is just her and the yōkai. “Human, human, human,” it says. It is a chill mist around her calves. Abruptly, she strikes out with a kick backwards. She whirls around and faces the disconsolate bob of the yōkai in front of her.

“Leave me alone!” she shouts. _Human. Human. Human._ Isn’t it funny the way it reminds her of her humanity when her family is more likely to regard her as a vector for calamity? She feels wrong. Her skin itches.

“Human—” the yōkai begins.

Shinju kicks out.

It doesn’t make her feel good.

It only feeds the fire in her.

And when the yōkai leaves, it is just her and her heavy breathing.

Alone again.

* * *

Seiju does not squirm beneath her father’s stern gaze. Her hands rest neatly in her lap and her spine mimics a ruler. She is all sharp, long lines—a regimented spill of straight dark hair, a dress with minimal flare, and a sharp, vulpine face. The blood from her scraped knees stains the hem of her dress.

There is a clay pot on a wooden desk and behind that wooden desk, her father sits with a lordly air. “Seiju,” he says, “I expect you to act as my daughter, not my son.”

“I am,” she refutes.

He frowns. “Women do not lead the Matoba clan. Women are not exorcists. So, why did your cousin tell me that you were in the woods? And why did you seal a yōkai?”

Seiju raises her chin. “I just wanted to look at the local plants; Nanase-san has been teaching me about them. I didn’t expect a nobusuma to try to suck the blood out of me!”

“You didn’t expect?” he says coolly. “You know that the woods aren’t tame.”

* * *

Head held high, Shinju walks past a pair of whispering boys. Their gaze on her settles like slime on her back and she does not look back. She does not want to look at them and she does not want to listen to their whispers.

“What’s with those eyes?” one of the boys says.

“Frigid,” the other boy scoffs. “Just because she’s halfway pretty and has good grades, doesn’t mean she can act like _that_.”

“Yeah, I heard Tadashi tried talking to her and she wouldn’t even look at him.”

“What a—”

Shinju turns the corner and their voices fade away. She had never intended to look down on people or anything, but because the things she sees and feels are different, the abnormal words she answers with come out inevitably unpleasant. And Tadashi—well, she had been looking at him but she had also been looking at the amorphous yōkai perched on his shoulder. “Get lost,” she had said, more to the yōkai than to him and yet...

* * *

Seiju laughs, a red-white flash of teeth that does not match her demure outlook. She ignores the way that the girl in front of her cringes and crumples a test paper in her hands. Settling a proprietary hand on the girl’s shoulder, she leans in. “Himawari-chan,” she croons, “it’s fine that you’re not pretty, but at least try to be smart.”

Himawari frowns and shrugs off Seiju’s hand.

She looks hurt, Seiju observes.

Seiju pauses before encouragingly raising a fist. “Ganbatte,” she says with a smile.

“You’re awful,” Himawari says dully. Her hands swipe at her eyes and her shoulders fold in. A wilted flower, waiting to crumble into nothingness.

Seiju frowns. “I was just sharing my opinion,” she says. “You’re not going to get anywhere in life if you’re going to be so sensitive, Himawari-chan.”

* * *

“Three days from now, 8pm at Ishizuki Valley. If you can see, you will immediately know where the assembly hall is,” a yōkai had told Shinju. Against the inevitable backlash from her father and grandfather, she had opted to proceed to the valley. How could Shinju distance herself from yōkai when with every step she takes, she can see one in her peripheral? Maybe her sight did draw in calamities but ignoring her sight won’t improve anything.

“You’ll know if you can see, huh?” Shinju murmurs. She stares at yōkai holding up signs saying, “North Entrance” and “Assembly Hall.” Just as she steels herself to go the way of the assembly hall, a yōkai appears with a looming malice that makes her clench her fists.

“Hey, girl,” the yōkai says, “ I haven’t seen you around before. Who invited you? If you don’t answer, I’ll eat you right here.”

Another surprise—a short girl suddenly approaches from behind and says, “Stop it. She’s with me.” Shinju stares at the girl for a moment and takes in the sight of her. She has long, dark hair with half of it thrown over her shoulder. The skirt of her sailor fuku school uniform hovers just above her knees and her socks hug her calves. She has knobbly knees. Shinju does not expect the deference the yōkai offers this girl.

“My apologies,” the yōkai says.

Shinju stares at the girl again and says, “Thank you. Can you see them too?” It is a silly question but she has never met someone her age with the sight. Despite her father’s and grandfather’s disenchantment, she had always found the world of exorcists and yōkai to be an old man’s world.

“Yes,” the girl answers.

“I heard a meeting of exorcists would be held here, so...what is a student doing here?”

The girl laughs. “I could ask you the same. What are you doing here? I’m in first year.”

“I’m in second year. My name is Natori, Natori Shinju. I came because I want to learn about ayakashi. And you?”

“Hmmm, Natori Shinju? Like ‘pearl’?”

“Yes.”

“Ha, isn’t that funny? You can call me Seiju, Shinju-san. You see, I came here in search of something I could use. Shinju-san, look… On top of that tree, do you see the kimono that’s stuck there? What color is it?”

Shinju turns to face the tree Seiju had singled out. There is a kimono stuck in the tree and it waves in a gentle breeze that she cannot feel. “A deep red,” she finally says.

Seiju hums and it raises Shinju’s hackles. What a dismissive sound!

“What? Hey!” Shinju exclaims.

Seiju smiles. Her smile freezes on her face when a man in a bucket hat approaches the pair.

“Seiju-kun,” the man says, “I told you, this isn’t a place kids should be.”

“Takuma-san, I was ordered by the clan this time as well,” Seiju says.

“Seiju-kun, please don’t lie to me again. Matoba-san will not be pleased when he hears about this,” Takuma says.

“Funny. Matoba-san won’t be hearing about this unless you want me to tell him about—” Seiju begins with sly eyes and an upturned mouth.

“Fine, fine! Anyways, who’s she? A friend?” Takuma says.

“No, but she’s not bad,” Seiju says.

Shinju clenches her fists. “What?! What do you mean not bad?!” Not bad! The nerve of her…

“Ah, hey! Don’t fight!” Takuma intervenes.

Seiju laughs before she says, “Well, I’m off. Nanase-san is waiting. Bye.”

“Nanase-san shouldn’t be enabling her,” Takuma mutters.

Shinju scowls at Seiju’s retreating back. What luck to have met another girl her age with the sight that manages to be insufferable. Her smug, vulpine face lingers in her mind. Shinju has no interest in being used for what purposes Seiju has concocted in her mind. She turns to Takuma and says, “What’s with her?”

“She’s the daughter of the Matoba clan. Not the heir, of course, but still the daughter of the current head,” Takuma says.

“The Matoba clan, you say?” Shinju says. Matoba...she’s seen that somewhere before. She lets out a soft gasp, realization painting broad strokes across her mind. Her time in the family warehouse sifting through aged books is certainly not a waste now.

“The Matoba clan,” Takuma continues, “is a family of exorcists renowned to be of top class in status and ability. They were responsible for rounding up the eleven big exorcist clans.”

Shinju mulls over the information, the new assimilated into the old—layers of paint obfuscating the canvas. That girl...was one of the Matoba clan...

“And who are you?” Takuma says.

“Ah...my name is Natori Shinju…”

“Eh?! You mean from the Natori?!”

“Yeah.”

It turns out that Takuma-san’s reaction is not unique. In the assembly hall, Shinju listens to both yōkai and humans whisper about her and her family. It seems the name Natori is famous among exorcists and not in a good way. They call her family “a cowardly family that quickly quit and ran away” after no longer being blessed with people who could see.

Shinju ruefully considers her family’s distaste for the yōkai world and by extension, for her. Two sides to every story, she muses. Still, the side she’s on—well, who doesn’t want a better story?

The others in the assembly hall even whisper about Matoba Seiju when they catch sight of her flitting through the room with a tall, short-haired woman at her side. “The Matoba clan must be disappointed to have a daughter,” they whisper. “I heard they’re looking for a new heir through her marriage.”

There is no place for women in exorcism, Shinju realizes. At least not in the top ranks. She had not realized until now that adopted grooms are still a common practice. On further reflection (a reflection that does not come easily to her), it does make sense for exorcist clans to still stick to the old ways. It seems like the unchanging nature of yōkai still guides the exorcist world—not that she knows as much as she would like about the exorcist world. All the books in the warehouse cannot substitute in for real experience.

* * *

A tri-horned ayakashi attacks Takuma-san and disregarding any advice, Shinju chases after it. Nobody responds well to her presence. Even the younger exorcists cast her disdainful glances. “Girls,” one of them says, “shouldn’t be out here.”

“She doesn’t intend to steal all our work now, does she?” another mutters.

Shinju clenches her fist. The Natoris are one of the original exorcist clans and she doesn’t recognize any of these exorcists here. Insinuating that she would steal their nonexistent exorcising effort— _absurd_. Exorcists, especially the low-ranked ones, had started to tarnish the image she had begun to hold. She had thought being with people who could see and around whom there was no need to lie could be enough, but it isn’t enough.

The exorcist world will never welcome her, she realizes. Even if she exorcises this ayakashi, Takuma-san and the others would never approve of her. The impossibility of gaining the approval of the exorcists dawns on her but she does not retreat. She too wants to exorcise the fears of the people who are afraid. It is right and just. (And she _wants_ to be right.)

Her whole world narrows down to this fine point—of exorcism and of righteousness. At home, the invisible delineation between her and her family grows. She starts skipping dinners to spend time in the warehouse. No longer does she cough at dust rising from books because they are now all well-worn in her hands. When she closes her eyes, the phantom lines of spells and circles reappear.

* * *

The ayakashi runs away when her binding talisman fails. All her hard work with no results but she does not want to give up. She levels a fierce glare at movement in the corner of her eyes. It is a familiar movement—the swing of long, dark hair.

It is Matoba Seiju and she has a talisman in her hand. “Shinju-chan,” she says with a grating overfamiliarity, “are you pursuing that one too? Then, won’t you team up with me?” She has sly eyes and an even slyer mouth.

Shinju’s eyes linger on Seiju’s mouth. How annoying. Does Seiju think Shinju will let her test her own usefulness again? She hates people like Seiju. Shinju isn’t interested in being discarded when her usefulness runs out.

“I refuse!” Shinju says. “I...I want to find how far I can go with my own strength.” It’s better that way. It’s safer.

Seiju laughs and laughs. It is a high, grating sound.

“Don’t laugh!” Shinju shouts.

Seiju raises a demure hand to cover her mouth. Her laughter dies off but her eyes are still smiling. “Well,” she says, “think it over for now, Shinju-chan.”

“Shut up! I won’t team up with you,” Shinju says.

Seiju laughs again.

_I don’t think I’ll ever get along with this girl._

* * *

Seiju reappears again with an abruptness that makes Shinju flinch. Hot breath ghosts her neck, Seiju approaching from behind. “It’s really not coming, huh?” she says.

“Matoba Seiju!” Shinju exclaims. Her heartbeat settles down to a more sedate rhythm. The shock wears off and Shinju glares at her.

A smile leaves Seiju’s eyes slitted, like a content cat leaning into a pet. “You can just call me Seiju...Well, this is the place where it received a counter-attack, so I suppose it won’t come back for a while.”

“Why are you here? I told you I wouldn’t team up with you.”

“I’m just acting on my own. Anyway, you have an amazing amount of stuff there.”

Shinju frowns. Her eyes reflexively glance at her array of supplies. “I don’t know which will work on the ayakashi, right?” she concedes.

Seiju laughs. “That might be true for cheap tools.”

Shinju has never known the depth of the violence in her soul until she met Matoba Seiju. Her fists clench. “You, did you come to pick a fight?” she says. She thinks about the way her hands would feel on Seiju’s soft, clear skin. Like cracking a porcelain doll.

Seiju has the audacity to look confused. “Huh?” she says. “Sorry, I just voiced my opinions. You should be pretty good even if you just memorized some circles and used a good sealing jar, Shinju-chan. I heard the Natori family was skillful in using paper. Ones who are adept at manipulating paper are said to be on a class where they can negotiate with the gods. But then people fell you...you just never know what’s going to happen. The Matoba clan might not always be on top either.” She pauses and a smile that is not a smile twitches on her lips. “Ahaha, who knows. I won’t let it fall.”

Seiju likes hearing the sound of her own voice, Shinju realizes. But still, there is no such weight lying on her shoulders. She isn’t invested enough in the exorcist world to feel that weight of rank press down upon her. The Natoris are not even a player in this game Seiju plays. Shinju can see the world swaying so loosely and it is a world she does not want to be dragged into, so she doesn’t say anything to Seiju. (Even if she burns with it…)

“Well then,” Seiju continues, “let’s go.”

“Hmm?”

“To Takuma-san’s place. My experience in exorcism is still quite shallow—”

“Oh. They don’t even allow you in either, huh?”

“In?”

“In with the exorcists. I remember—your father doesn’t want you to exorcise.”

The natural smugness on Seiju’s face falters but only for a moment. “It doesn’t matter. Exorcists—the good ones, at least—don’t live long anyways.”

“They still won’t let you and I think, I think you’ll have to care. You’re not like me.”

“Of course, I’m not like you. It’s called ambition, Shinju-chan. So why don’t you commit and let’s go see Takuma-san tomorrow. The sun’s already setting and it would be impolite to visit him at this time. Let’s meet again tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

* * *

Shinju does not defeat the ayakashi. It is Seiju again who steps in and interferes in this world of exorcists and yōkai. With her bow and arrow, she shoots the ayakashi when Shinju’s binding talisman fails. In that moment—the tense moment before release—Shinju watches Seiju and almost likes what she finds. It is infuriating, of course.

There is a smile on Seiju’s face and Shinju has to classify it as smug or else—

“Thank you,” Shinju says begrudgingly. “You saved me.”

“I see,” Seiju says in a damnable tone of voice. “Then I’ll gratefully claim the merit. Shinju-chan, improve your lifestyle.” She casts a look at the debris of spellwork at Shinju’s feet. “That is, if you can’t become stronger.”

Any gratefulness dissipates, just as it should and as it always has been with her. “Shut up,” Shinju says.

Seiju is still smiling when she leaves.

It’s funny—after all of this, neither she nor Seiju find acceptance within the exorcist world. Matoba Seiju single-handedly defeated an ayakashi that targeted exorcists but the exorcists cast Seiju in the role of an uppity fool. “The next heir of the family still isn’t going to be _her_ ,” the exorcists gossip. “Ha, the stability of the Matobas! What a joke. Who would even want to marry in? I definitely would not want my right eye to be eaten. I heard that Matoba-san had his face attacked mercilessly countless times.”

The Matobas have problems of their own that Seiju’s talent will never be able to overcome.

* * *

“Shinju,” Sumi-san calls out, “you have a visitor!”

A visitor? Shinju doesn’t get visitors. All the same, she gets up from her seat and slides her door open. Shinju stares at the short girl lingering outside her room, cheerfully escorted by Sumi-san. “Matoba Seiju,” she says blankly.

Seiju beams. “I told you that you can call me Seiju, Shinju-chan!” she trills.

“And I told you”—Shinju pauses to glance at a smiling Sumi-san—“not to call me that,” she finishes weakly.

Sumi-san’s eyes slide from Shinju to Seiju before she gives a firm nod, deciding upon something that Shinju has no idea of. “Have fun, girls!” she says. She walks away and then it is just Seiju and Shinju.

“So rude,” Seiju says. She shoulders past Shinju to get into her room, the floral scent of her hair consuming Shinju for one long moment.

Shinju turns around with crossed arms to face a seated Seiju . “Rude?” Shinju repeats.

“I can tell you don’t get many guests,” Seiju says. Her prim sitting posture and the fan of her skirt infuriates Shinju in a way she doesn’t entirely understand.

“What are you even doing here?” Shinju says.

“Well,” Seiju says, “I was in the area and I thought I’d stop by.” She casts a disdainful glance at the messy table in front of her, piled high with schoolbooks and aged books.

“In the area?” Shinju repeats. “How do you even know that I live here?”

Seiju smiles in a way that she must think is enigmatic but in reality makes Shinju want to slap it off. It must be a talent to incite that much violence in a person. Shinju wants her hands on her, in any way, but it must be in a way that makes sense and anger—that works.

“You’d investigate the one you wanted to team up with too, right?” Seiju says.

“No,” Shinju says baldly.

“All work and no play makes for a very boring girl,” Seiju says.

“Right. Is that why you brought your bow?”

“Well, I just thought—”

“I’m still not interested in teaming up with you.”

Seiju levels Shinju a pitying look and lets loose a gusty sigh. “Shinju-chan,” she says, “Takuma-san is nice and all but he’s not very well-versed in techniques.”

“What, and you are? You’re not even your clan’s heir,” Shinju says cruelly. The release of a bowstring and an arrow hits its mark. She should regret it—she wants to be nice but it’s different with Seiju. Pretty, perfect Seiju, who will never be enough. A warped reflection.

“And who are you, Natori-san? Your clan has long fallen and what connections you have—well, they’re not very useful, are they?” A delicate laugh punctuates the end of Seiju’s remarks.

“Get out,” Shinju orders.

And Seiju stands up, a graceful unfolding of her limbs. The hem of her skirt floats just above her knees and settles around her when she walks forward. She walks until she is directly in front of Shinju.

Seiju is short, Shinju is reminded as the distance between them closes. But it doesn’t hinder the way her presence makes Shinju want to lean back. She is so close and that damnable floral scent wafts over. It isn’t heavy and it’s irrational but Shinju feels something in the pit of her chest that must be dislike.

“I don’t,” Shinju says, her breath puffing out onto Shinju’s exposed skin, “see why I should leave.”

“Because I said so!”

Seiju tilts her head to meet Shinju’s eyes squarely. “What are you so afraid of?”

 _Coward_ , rings unbidden in Shinju’s mind. Her jaw clenches and there are no words that arise on her tongue. What can she say? She does not want to admit to the implicit message but neither can she refute it.

“Do you even know what you’re doing? What you actually want?” Seiju continues. And their bodies are so close that Shinju begins to marvel at the inherent flimsiness of fabric and how easily she could reach out and just—

“What—what do you—”

“What do I think?” Seiju interjects. Her eyes are still creased in a smile. “I think you’re lost and you’re too proud to admit it.”

“I don’t need your help!” Shinju says. Abruptly, she steps away from Seiju and regains the distance between them. What, does Seiju think she can intimidate her by coming so close? Shinju isn’t intimidated and she’s tired of Seiju’s assumptions. She’s tired of Seiju.

“I told you, if you don’t get stronger, you won’t be able to protect anything. Isn’t it selfish of you?”

“What?!”

“Trying so hard to help when you have no idea what you’re doing. Self-taught and only getting help from a washed-out exorcist.”

“A washed-out exorcist? Who are you to judge? Nobody even recognizes you as an exorcist. You’re the one who’s pretending!”

“Don’t be so stupid. I thought you knew better. I’m still a Matoba and my father has no sons. Even if I get married, the only power a man will get will be through me. I’m the one who grew up a Matoba.”

“I still don’t want your help!”

“Of course not. But you need it—you need _me_.” There is an awful cheerfulness to her smile and her words. “I’ll see you later, Shinju-chan. I have a yōkai to catch in your woods.”

Surprise stills Shinju’s body as Seiju walks past her with the flash of her shifting skirt and the scent of her hair to mark her passing. Shinju twists to watch Seiju’s departing back. Seiju lazily waves a hand in the air.

“Bye,” Seiju says. “You know where to find me…”

* * *

A memory:

The chirp of birds and the susurration of water. A cool breeze off the river. A girl with long black hair tied low and loose. Strands of hair lifting in the wind with a strange fluidity reminiscent of ink diffusing in water.

_I’m glad we’re not together. I don’t want to see her face. Even when she shows her usual fearless laughter, or sadly looks down...Somehow, I feel she’s disheartened by something. I will never be able to see the same things as her. Our paths are different._

* * *

Like a set of binary stars, they revolve together around the world of the exorcists. When they get too close, they distort each other in ways that Shinju does not know how to process. The anger comes easily even if her eyes can never quite leave Seiju’s form.

Seiju still comes close.

She does not care.

Or she cares in a way that Shinju does not understand.

And then one day, it all comes to a head. Their paths coincide—a yōkai that neither of them should be chasing. They do not team up but they exist in the same area. And when Seiju’s arrow fails, Shinju swoops in. It is only then that Shinju lets exhilaration overcome her.

It is a dangerous, heady sensation that incites her to come close.

They come close and closer and closer until they intertwine.

After that, things are not as easy and clear-cut as Shinju would wish. It is like falling and only realizing the fall at the end. It is about the landing and it is here that Seiju is the one to stumble.

* * *

“You should be honored,” Seiju says loftily. “I’m rather popular with the boys.”

“‘The boys’,” Shinju says. Her eyes roll heavenward and she wants to gag at the smugness oozing out from Seiju. It is almost funny how Seiju is simultaneously so aware and unaware of people. Seiju’s popularity with “the boys”—well, it’s debatable. It wouldn’t surprise her if those boys had a secondary motive beyond the sweet spring of school romance.

“Yes,” Seiju agrees blithely. “Takahashi—his father is a CEO—just asked me to go on a date with him.”

“Great.”

“Of course, I had to decline. I have such a busy schedule, you know?”

“Ikebana classes take such a toll. Poor Seiju-chan.”

Seiju levels a venomous look at Shinju—a look entirely unappreciated since Shinju is busy gazing at the sky. Leaning back and propped on her hands, Shinju is the epitome of relaxation. Shinju likes it when Seiju gets fussy like a scorned cat not receiving their deserved pets.

“I’m very marriageable,” Seiju insists.

“Yes, yes, you’ll be the best housewife a man could ever ask for. I’ll cry into my pillow tonight about how awful my prospects are.”

“Hmph. As you should!” With the orbit of the world returning to revolve around her, Seiju uses her pointy elbows to get Shinju into the right position for her to rest her head in Shinju’s lap.

Shinju entangles her fingers in dark, loose hair and scratches at Seiju’s scalp in circular motions. It really is like having a cat, Shinju marvels.

“It’s rather lewd, you know, the way you dress,” Seiju says, puncturing the peaceful atmosphere with her characteristic obliviousness.

“What,” Shinju says flatly. Her hand stops stroking and she ignores the way Seiju’s head butts into her resting hand.

“Your shirt,” Seiju whispers.

A whisper? Is...Seiju shy?

“My shirt?” Shinju says. “I’m wearing the school uniform. They don’t exactly design them to be— _lewd_.”

“Well,” Seiju says huffily, “maybe you need to go a size up.”

Shinju scoffs. “I’m sorry for not having mosquito bites for breasts.” _Like you_.

“Large breasts are just not very seemly,” Seiju insists.

Shinju stares down at Seiju, still in her lap as if nothing had just occurred. “Are you serious?” Shinju says. “Are you really telling me this?” _Me, your girlfriend?_ Sometimes Shinju forgets how annoying Seiju can be and then Seiju, with her heart of gold, helpfully reminds Shinju why she wanted to throttle her at first sight.

Seiju lets out a little “hmph”, as if it is unthinkable that she isn’t serious and that oh, she’s just looking out for Shinju. Seiju has the infuriating habit of thinking she is offering advice when: a) any advice would be unsolicited; and b) any “advice” from Seiju is not actually advice.

“Are you really,” Shinju begins heavily, “telling your girlfriend that her—her _chest_ is unseemly?” _Is that the hill you want to die on?_

“Well,” Seiju says in that tone of voice that heralds nothing good, “it’s not like we’re actually girlfriends.”

“What.”

“We’re just close friends. I’m going to get married anyway.”

“Seiju, I know you know what lesbians are. Nanase-san is a lesbian.”

“So?”

“Seiju…you do know you’re not straight?”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter.”

“I had my tongue in your mouth a half-hour ago.”

“Well–”

And Shinju’s life flashes in front of her eyes as she hears _that_ tone of voice again. It really does boggle the mind since Seiju was the one to pursue her so aggressively. Is this how Seiju reconciles her traditionalist upbringing with their relationship? The mental gymnastics…

* * *

“Isn’t it nice being out of your stuffy dresses?”

“They’re not stuffy, Shinju-chan. It’s called modesty.”

“Modesty, and what—I don’t have it?”

“Well—”

The smack of flesh against flesh and soft sighs.

“You look prettier like this...Seiju-chan.”

A laugh. “Say it again!”

“No.”

A sigh. “Shinju-chan is all tsun and no dere.”

“Shut up.”

“ _Make me_.”

The rustle of fabric and the soft thud of impact.

* * *

**part ii: summer**

“I will never be able to see the same things as her.”

* * *

“Isn’t it because you look through these glasses that everything appears distorted?”

* * *

A shadow of a lizard crawls across creamy skin and fingers trail after it. Moonlight illuminates this canvas of bare skin. A hand swats at the trailing fingers and a voice says, “Seiju! That tickles!” A soft chuckle echoes in return.

“I think your lizard is scared of me,” Seiju murmurs. There is a smile in her voice and Shinju twists in the bed to face her and her smile. So pretty in the moonlight—all dark hair and sharp angles. Shinju likes the way their hair, black and blonde, tangle together on the edges of their respective pillows.

“I’m scared of you too,” Shinju says, casual and breathless. She regrets the words immediately when she feels Seiju stiffen under her hands. Seiju always makes her feel so awfully, terribly clumsy. It is like being a teen again and not knowing how to untangle that wretched ball of envy and desire.

“You never want to let me in,” Seiju says abruptly. Seiju is honest to a fault but usually in a way that benefits her and guides the situation. Shinju does not know what Seiju wants—not here, not now in the dark, in bed.

The sheets rustle when Shinju shifts to lay on her back and stare at the ceiling. “What do you mean? You’re already here,” she says. Evasion is easier than confronting the unsaid and the said. Seiju never knows when to back off, Shinju muses. It’s not sustainable.

“I’ve never done anything to you,” Seiju says.

Shinju sighs. “Not to me...Never to me,” she says. “Let’s just go back to sleep.”

“What,” Seiju says slowly, “is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Shinju turns onto her side, facing away from the inevitable downturn of Seiju’s face. Maybe it means something—showing Seiju her back. Maybe it doesn’t and maybe Shinju just wants something easy to fall asleep to.

“Why am I always the villain?” Seiju huffs.

Shinju ignores her and firmly closes her eyes. She listens to the rustle of the sheets and of her Seiju’s hair when she twists and turns away.

They fall asleep and Shinju wakes up alone.

* * *

“What,” Seiju says, “would you do if I got married?”

Shinju stares at Seiju—at the curve of her stark red mouth and the elongated sweep of her eyelashes. It isn’t Seiju’s usual makeup; she oftens opts for a more natural look with soft pinks and beiges. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Shinju eventually says. “It’s what your father has always wanted, hasn’t he?”

“The Matoba clan is mine,” Seiju agrees. “I’m—we’re not going to let some distant branch take over.” She laughs lightly, as if that is the more absurd element of the scenario she proposes.

“That’s it then? You’re still going to get married,” Shinju says. Looking at Seiju right now is like looking at a glossy photo of a painting, two times removed from reality. The world turns quiet and all she hears is Seiju’s voice.

“That’s it then,” Seiju says. “It’s a convenient time. My father is dying and aren’t you training to be an idol or whatever?’

“Or whatever,” Shinju numbly agrees.

“He’s rather a bore,” Seiju continues, “but he’ll be very useful. One of the eleven original clans—”

“The Natoris are one of the eleven,” Shinju says. She does not know what possessed her to say that. She suppresses a frown at Seiju’s laugh.

“Well, you know what I mean,” Seiju says with a smile.

There are days that Shinju thinks that she has outgrown her temper but then there is beautiful, awful Matoba Seiju who teases it out of her. “I don’t. Tell me,” she says heatedly.

Seiju visibly pauses, regathering herself. She almost looks awkward. Shinju hates her for it and she wants to kiss the regrowth of smugness off her face. She wants to bite at her lip—one last time and Shinju hates herself for it.

“Well—”

“I said, tell me, Seiju. Tell me what you really mean.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Do you really want us to end like this?”

“Yes, tell me how self-absorbed and manipulative you are!”

“That’s funny. What does it say about you that you still like me? You and I—what’s the difference?”

“I’m a better person than you are.”

“Oh, I see. Is that what you’ve always thought? What—do you think you’re a hero? Underdog Natori against the big, bad Matoba.” The twist of Seiju’s mouth is a delicate thing.

“It’s always so one-sided with you. Like I’m supposed to be _happy_ with what you give me!”

“You knew who I was when you told me that you loved me.”

“It’s always about your plans. You never fit me in, did you? You never were going to.” And the anger in Shinju is unsustainable—a bleakness to her voice. The anger was good and just. Without it, what else does she have to warm her?

“I told you,” Seiju says blankly. “I never lied to you. I always told you.”

* * *

_UNLOVED_ , the poster proclaims on a storefront window. A woman with short blond hair has a hand raised to brush away her bangs. Downturned eyes shadowed with long lashes and a natural pout to her mouth. A certain melancholy look to her wan face emphasizes the bleakness of an album cover color palette.

“Shinju,” Seiju sighs, “you melodramatic idiot.”

She enters the store.

* * *

“My condolences for your loss,” Shinju says.

Seiju smiles, small and demure. “A tragedy,” she says. “Gone too early.”

 _Too early_. Shinju regards Seiju with a wry look.

* * *

Matoba Seiju gracefully settles into her leadership after the death of her husband. The attack of a yōkai legitimizes her rule. She covers her right eye with a seal and spindly shiki begin to trail behind her. No longer does she need to hide in the shadows—the shadows can now hide behind her.

The world of the exorcists can no longer afford to stick to the ways of yore. Exorcism is a dying practice even if the yōkai stay stagnant. The cracks run deep and no amount of gold can transform decay into growth. The sighted grow scarce and estates begin to fall into disrepair.

Under the Matoba, the exorcists gather and gather until the meeting halls burst full with the remainder. No longer can they afford to remain separate, not when the yōkai still stir and wreak havoc in places they no longer have a foothold. It is the last gathering against a siege.

* * *

“Hmm, do you want to see what’s under this seal, Natsume-kun?” Seiju says. “Want to learn what befriending yōkai will do to you?” She has the voice of honey, sweet and viscous—all the better to entrap.

Takashi rears back in a motion akin to a caught fly thrashing in a trap.

Seiju laughs softly. “You’re just a little boy,” she says, “but if you try, you could be useful too.”

“I don’t want to be useful,” Takashi says.

“One day, you’ll fall so deep that you won’t know how to get out. And on that day, you’ll realize that nobody can be a hero.”

“I never—never wanted to be a _hero_.”

“They’ll thank you now but what makes you think they’ll remember you? You’re just another human.”

“They remembered my grandmother.”

“Did they? But do you think they can care in a way that we can understand? In a way that makes sense? They’ll like you in bits and pieces, but never the whole.”

“But aren’t humans like that too?”

“Oh, is that how it is? Poor Natsume-kun thinks the yōkai are his friends. Would you let them go then if they hurt a human?”

“That’s not how it is.”

“You have to make a choice. You need _conviction_.”

* * *

And then it is the three of them in an abandoned house with the possibility of one of three guardian deities. The sweet and bitter tastes of loquats lingering in their mouths. Both ripe and unripe—the possibility hanging between them. Two women and a child.

Their orbits coincide.

And they are dressed in soft pinks and blues.

* * *

Hanging from the branches of a green

Willow tree,

The spring rain

Is a

Thread of pearls.

_Thread of Pearls_ , Lady Ise

**Author's Note:**

> You can reblog [Alaina's art](https://alainaavocado.tumblr.com/post/626806612440530944/like-a-set-of-binary-stars-they-revolve-together%22) and [my fic post](https://tunnelofdawn.tumblr.com/post/626805820639854592/thread-of-pearls-tunnelofdawn-ao3).
> 
> natomato really deserves a long slow-burn fic but i hope i did them justice here!! 
> 
> big thanks to the hexorcists server for all the previous discussions we've had. they really solidified my intent to write this!
> 
> anyways, [my writing twitter](https://twitter.com/yunmengdilf).


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